Gabrielle Zevin - Because It Is My Blood

“I don’t want a scene here.” I took my hand back again.

“You have to make Scarlet marry me,” Gable said insanely.

“I can’t do that.”

“Tell her you’ve forgiven me!”

“But I haven’t, Arsley.”

Arsley slumped back into his chair. He crossed his arms. “I could still sue you, you know. I wish I had. Then I’d never have to work again. And I’d have loads of money to take care of Scarlet and the baby.”

“How noble of you. Listen, Gable. If you really want to sue someone, you should sue Sophia Bitter. She was the one responsible for the poisonings.”

“Sophia Bitter?” Gable asked. “Who’s that?”

Win and Scarlet returned to the table. “Hello, Arsley,” Win said in a hard voice.

“Is he bothering you?” Scarlet asked me.

It was adorable the way my friends thought that Gable Arsley could be anything other than an annoyance to me now. Strapped to my thigh, under Noriko’s outrageous dress, was my favorite souvenir of Mexico.

Gable got up and limped back to whatever corner he had come from.

A slower song came on, and Scarlet insisted that Win and I dance at least once. “It’s senior prom, you guys!”

On the dance floor, Win pulled me close to him and briefly, I could imagine what this whole year might have been like if everything had been different.

I felt him stiffen as his thigh pressed into my machete.

“Do you always have to have that with you?” Win asked.

I felt myself blush. “I’m sorry. But this is me, Win.”

Win nodded. “I was only teasing. I know that.” He brushed a curl off my forehead.

“It was the machete or Daisy Gogol,” I joked. “No one is shooting my boyfriend at this year’s prom.”

Win tapped the machete through my dress. “I wondered why you were so insistent that we come in through the back.”

“Metal detector,” I said.

“Well, I do appreciate this. I’d like to be in your life a very long time and that’ll be somewhat easier to do if I’m alive.”

The song dissolved into a faster song, at which point Win agreed that we had both suffered through enough of prom. Scarlet was planning to spend the night at my place so we went to fetch her before going outside to catch the crosstown bus home.

Outside, there were many boys in black jackets, but mine was the only one in white.

EARLY IN MAY,while Natty was studying for finals and my ex-peers were being fitted for caps and gowns, I took the New York State GED. The test was administered at the New York City Department of Education on West Fifty-Second Street. Out of sentimentality, I wore my old Trinity uniform. In the windowless testing room, I snuck glances at the faces of the other test-takers. They didn’t look particularly stupid or downtrodden or even old, so I could not help but wonder what in their lives had led them to this room. What mistakes had they made? Who had they trusted that they shouldn’t have? Or had they just been born to the wrong parents at the wrong time? Maybe I was being negative though. Maybe finishing high school in a classroom with no windows and a broken-down air conditioner wasn’t such a bad thing. At the very least, these people had survived whatever missteps they had taken and come out the other side.

Mr. Kipling had hired me a tutor, and though I’d only been semiconsistent in my studies, the test was easy enough. I wouldn’t find out for another three to four weeks if I had passed, but effectually and if all went well, this marked the end of high school for me. A bit anticlimactic, no? Then again … I had had plenty of climax in the past year and certainly more than my share of conflict and rising action. I could stand for a bit of denouement. No one tended to get shot during the denouement. (The GED had a section on literary terms, if you were wondering.)

At home, an e-mail was waiting for me. When I saw the domain mark was Mexico, I felt ashamed. As I was at least partially responsible for Theo’s injuries, I’d been too embarrassed to call or write the Marquezes. Still, a good person would have found some way to send word.

Dear Anya,

Hello. I hope you have not forgotten your very best pal, Theo. I am writing to you because you have not written to me. Why do you stand on circumstance? Do you not know that your good friend Theo misses you? Do you not care at all about him?

You will like to know how I am faring, I think. But maybe you are too ashamed to ask. Well, you should feel very guilty, Anya, because I have been very sick. I did almost die. And I was not allowed to go back to the orchards until just last week. I am almost better now. My sister and my mother and the abuelas are being unbearable as you can imagine. We did here learn that Cousin Sophia was responsible for the attempt on your and my lives. She has always been a strange woman and never a favorite in our family for a variety of reasons that I would be glad to detail for you in person. (This is an invitation if you choose to take it as one.) But the reason I am writing you today is because the abuelas feel responsible for the attempts on your life. They think that they did not love Sophia enough. (But then they do think that all the problems in the world can be attributed to lack of love.) To make amends, they have asked me to pass on the recipe for Casa Marquez Hot Chocolate. I translated it for you, but it is not a literal translation. I embellished it where I thought it might amuse you (see attachment). Abuela wants me to remind you that it is a very powerful and ancient recipe with many, many health and spiritual benefits. “Please, Theo,” she begs, “make sure she knows not to let it fall into the wrong hands.”

Anya, when we were together, I know I spent much time complaining about my responsibilities to the farm and the factories. How I longed for my freedom. It is strange because in all the months I was sick, the only thing I wanted was to get back to the factories and the farm. So, maybe it is a good thing that I was nearly fatally shot. (This is me, joking. I am still the funniest person you know, I bet.)

I hope you will come back to Chiapas someday. You’re a natural at cacao production, but I still have much I can teach you.

Besos,

Theobroma Marquez

I read the recipe, then I went into the kitchen. We didn’t have rose petals or chili pepper but it was Saturday market, so I decided to take the bus down to Union Square to shop for the ingredients. It was Daisy’s morning off, and Natty was occupied with her studies, so I decided to go by myself.

The roses were easy enough to come by, but I had trouble finding the chili pepper and I had just about given up when I spotted a stand selling, according to its sign: MEDICINAL HERBS, SPICES, TINCTURES, & MISCELLANY. I pulled back a striped curtain and went inside. The air smelled of incense. Rolling wooden shelves were lined with rows of hand-labeled glass jars.

The proprietor quickly located a small glass jar of chili peppers. “Is that all you need, girl?” the proprietor asked. “Have a look around. I have many other enticing products, and if you buy two, the third is free.” The proprietor had a glass eye and a velvet cloak and a walking stick, and he looked rather like a wizard. The glass eye was a very good one. The only hint that it wasn’t a real eye was that it didn’t track me around the store like the other eye did.

On the lowest shelf sat a small jar with cacao nibs. As I took the jar in my hand, I felt a rush of nostalgia for Granja Mañana. I held it up to the stall-keeper. “How are you able to sell these? Without getting arrested, I mean?”

“It’s perfectly legal, I assure you.” He paused to give me the evil eye. (Literally, just the one.) “Do you work for the authorities?”